


Bubblegum Bounty Hunter

by Texan_Morrell10907



Series: Bubblegum Bounty Hunter [1]
Category: Fly Away Home (1996), The Wizard (1989), War Games (1983)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Coming of Age, Conspiracy, Domestic Violence, Gen, Roadtrip, Video & Computer Games, Warp Pipe Arcade, young adult fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Texan_Morrell10907/pseuds/Texan_Morrell10907
Summary: Finding herself at the end of the Arcade Era, Dylan Ashley Yates is a thirteen-year-old gaming prodigy; using her talents to combat the emotional weight of family trauma pressing down upon her and fulfill her vow to become the greatest gamer in Dallas. On the opposite side of the city, Aidan Cassidy Edgefield lives one day at a time in a family without roots and on the run from his mother's ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, and debt collectors.Dylan trains tirelessly to break the limits on how far and how strong a girl can push herself in digital combat.Aiden spends each spare moment designing and constructing a way to fly far from the hurricane of a life he's been swimming through.One summer night, as the nineteen-nineties come to a close and the age of the internet ramps up into high gear, one mysterious game will send both Aiden and Dylan's lives into a dangerous spiral of conspiracy, espionage, and human trafficking. If they work together, they may stand a slim chance of surviving...





	1. New KungFu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to grasp for control among the chaos that's become her life, Dylan makes a life-changing discovery at the newly constructed Stone Briar mall.

**PART I - Genesis  
**

 

199X - Dallas, TX

    Dylan pushed the rear door of the Land Cruiser up and opened a doorway to hell. Cool air that had been recycled through the mid size SUV was immediately sucked out and vanquished by the ungodly Texan summer sun. Summers in Long Beach had been hot before. Inland summers were even worse. This heat that Dylan had been unjustly thrown into was different, cruel. Dallas heat clung to your skin; a thin layer of sweat and hopelessness that shrink wrapped your soul. A week ago, if she had been given the option between death or moving in with her father, Dylan began to seriously consider letting the sun have its way with her and evaporate into nothingness. Then again, if it weren’t for the events that lead to her current situation, Dylan would never have encountered her life’s calling.

    As the allure of ending it all beckoned Dylan, a gravelly voice boomed out from behind, “You thinking of going AWOL, Private?”

    Dylan hadn’t noticed how far she’d wandered away from her step-family and towards the mall. It took an impatient honk from a nearby Sedan for Dylan to dart out of the middle of the parking lot and turn towards her father. Chiseled out of granite, Colonel Isaac Yates was an immovable person in his work and convictions. If the physical distance of living several states away made approaching her father difficult, his default personality didn’t lend itself to building familial bridges. He was a good man, but always just out of reach no matter how close she got.

    Approaching his daughter with a stern face and a gleam in his eye, The Colonel repeated, “Weren’t planning on leaving us all behind were you?”

    Turning on the heels of her Rainbow Sandals, Dylan snapped to attention, “Sir, no Sir!” With a deflated sigh, Dylan’s posture then melted back into that of a typical thirteen year old girl. She added, “Just hot out here is all. Hot and hungry.”

    The Colonel flashed a brief grin, “Understood. Let’s try and stay with the whole unit, okay?”

    Shambling up from behind her father, the step-family approached. Furthest back were the twins, Matthew and Mark. Two years Dylan's’ younger, they were engaged in a perpetual shoving match for whose face originally belonged to whom. In the middle, striding precariously on a pair of gangly legs with his nose in his Nintendo Game Boy was Luke. Since her arrival almost a week ago, Dylan heard her eldest stepbrother speak fewer words than days she’d spent in Dallas. Closest to her father, at least in relative physical distance, was Mara. Dressed down from business attire, to business casual, Isaac Yates’ new wife had a countenance of being perpetually inconvenienced by everyone around her. Despite her demeanor, Mara was relatively polite and reserved with her frustration towards humanity as a whole.

    Calling over his shoulder, The Colonel attempted to rally the troops, “Let’s get a move on, it’s hotter than Fluja out here. Double time!”

    Draping an arm over his daughter, Dylan couldn’t help wonder whether her dad was attempting to express affection or simply keeping her on pace. Even after nearly a week, all Dylan wanted was to run ahead of the emotional hurricane that had been brewing in her heart. She ran from the funeral service. She ran from the wake. She ran across state lines. No matter how far mentally and physically she traveled, the memory of Dylan’s mom kept looming in the distance; a mass of dark heavy clouds. The last place Dylan wanted to be was in a farce of a family unit, stuck inside a mall crammed with hundreds more families all pretending to get along. On the other hand, the mall had air-conditioning.

\---

    Even inside StoneBriar Mall, the adhesive of sweat was thick enough to bond Dylan’s jean dress to her skin. Liquid sandpaper may not be a thing, but it was the closest equivalent to the sensation currently assaulting her flesh. Additionally, between the plastic chair and plastic expression that hung on Mara’s face, Dylan simply couldn’t sit still. This new wife sat across from Dylan and mindlessly tapped the humongous rock on her ring finger against the table. Mara’s other hand occasionally lifted her sandwich to her mouth, but never took a bite. The Twins kept poking each other. Luke kept playing. Everyone just sat there pretending everything was fine. It was unexceptable. Unbearable!

    Springing up from her seat, Dylan was about to scream, but nothing came out.

    Breaking eye contact with his barbecue sandwich, The Colonel looked up and asked, “Everything okay, Private? Maybe you want to sit down with the rest of us while we eat?”

    Now everyone was staring at Dylan. The whole food court was probably staring. With the exception of Luke, still transfixed on his Game Boy, the collective gaze forced Dylan to return to her seat. Shrugging off the urge to run screaming from the portrait of suburbia she’d been sealed inside of, Dylan offred a fake smile, “Leg cramp.”

    A flimsy but acceptable excuse, her father and the rest of the table withdrew into their comfortable corners of normalcy. Back to complacency. Shoving, playing, eating, contemplating the staying power of wedding vows; disgusting and unrelenting normalcy. It was only a matter of time before rebellion would rise again. First, it was leaping from the chair. Next, Dylan might steal a handful of cash and buy a one way ticket to virtually anywhere.

    Surprisingly, the next person to attempt escape was Mark. Of the two nearly identical step-siblings Mark was distinguishable in that he was usually always the first to speak and last to think about what words escaped his mouth. In an uncharacteristically polite tone he addressed Dylan’s father, “Excuse me, um. General?”

    Matthew cleared his throat and jabbed his brother with an elbow to the ribs, “He’s a commander, idiot. Like Cobra Commander.”

    Dylan bit angrily into her Barbeque and growled under her breath, “It’s Colonel, you morons.”

    With Colonel Yates attention fixed on Mark, the boy continued, “Could we um, borrow a few dollars or whatever for the arcade?” Gesturing meekly with his head, Mark waited for a reply.

    Matthew interjected, “How are you supposed to borrow money? You can’t get it back from the machines, stupid.”

    Without any change to his level tone, The Colonel removed a five dollar bill from his wallet and pinned it to the table under his pointer finger, “Yard work. You’ll repay me in yard work. Deal?”

    Mark had tugged the five out from The Colonel’s finger, running toward the arcade as he shouted his reply back, “Deal!” Matthew sprinted after his twin.

    With a sigh, The Colonel addressed his daughter, “Dylan, what about you? You want to go play the video games or whatever that is over there?” When Dylan shook her head, her father changed his tone from father to officer, “Well, how about you go keep an eye on your brothers anyway?”

    It may have been phrased as a question, but her father wouldn’t ask twice. Orders were orders. That wasn’t what bothered her of course. She wanted to shout back, rebel, wrap her fingers around the neck of fate until it reverted Dylan’s status back to an only child as it was meant to be.

    They were not her brothers.

    This was not her family.

    This was not her home.

    Nevertheless, Dylan was a better soldier than she was a daughter. Snapping to attention and throwing up a mock salute, she marched away from the table and towards the arcade.

    Satisfied at the discipline he assumed to have inspired in three of the four children under his charge, Dylan’s father turned to Luke. “How about you, Luke; you want to check out the arcade?”

    Luke’s only response was lifting his Game Boy slightly higher before dropping his attention back down to the dim green and gray screen.

 

    Not that she was in a hurry to find them, Dylan was still irritated that she’d lost track of her step-brothers. The Journey from the food court to the store front arcade required passing through a Red Sea of shoppers, strollers, and supposedly real families. It was a crowd that refused to part for the likes of a five foot two blonde girl with a sweat stained jean dress. Passing through the crowds only made the anxiety of fulfilling her mission that much more insufferable. All those people, pressing against her, talking over her, oblivious to the stress that dug its fingers into Dylan’s chest, constricting her lungs.

    Suddenly, everything changed. Dylan stepped across the threshold of the Warp Pipe Arcade. She felt her lungs expand. She drew in a fresh breath of cool air condition atmosphere artificially sweetened with orange scented cleaner. Her ears focused on the gentle hum of the pink neon marque over the back counter. Soon, the frequency of the ambient noise changed from the murmur of a dozen teenagers to choir of electronic BLIPS, and CHIRPS. Like an orchestra tuning their instruments before a concert, those random electronic noises soon blended together into a symphony of chiptune music.

    Dylan scanned the room no larger than a basketball court; fighting games, racing simulators, and platformers were crammed into every square inch of the humble storefront. Arcade cabinets the size of refrigerators stood everywhere in an electric labyrinth. Every machine offered the opportunity for escape at the cost of only a couple quarters. To Dylan, it was a maze of endless possabilities.

 

    Years ago, at a dinner overlooking the shore, Dylan recalled the scent of fresh brewed coffee, pine and ocean salt. The waves were gently lapping at the shore and the AMTrak Coast Liner clamored across the tracks beside the restaurant. As they waited for their food, Dylan’s mother watched as her daughter furiously scribbled along the walls of a maze on the back of a paper menu.

    Intrigued, Miss Aubry Yates asked her young daughter, “Dylan, honey, are you having trouble with the maze? I think you have stay in the lines to reach the finish.”

    Annoyed, a younger Dylan replied, “I am finishing it, mom. This house doesn’t have any pictures or furniture, or anything.” She continued to scribble with her crayon and added, “I have to decorate the house first.”

    With a smile, Aubry probed again, “You want to make the maze into a house?”

    Lifting up her crayon, Dylan examined her work. She took a sip of orange juice before answering her mother; “I mean, aren’t all homes a maze?”

 

    Standing upon the stained blue carpet of the Warp Pipe Arcade, Dylan felt something overtake her. From the soles of her sandals to the top of her sun scorched frizzled hair; this was Dylan’s new home. Unlike navigating the maze of a new family she’d been thrown into, this neon sanctuary was somewhere she was more willing to explore. The rules here were simple. The tithes were more than reasonable. For only a hand full of spare change each machine offered the chance of a new identity. Escape from the hurricane of Dylan’s life into a new world was at her fingertips.

    Dylan wandered wide eyed through the arcade cabinets. Dozens of competing electronic soundtracks soon gave way to one above all: Street Fighter II championship edition. Teenagers rallied around the cabinet to watch the two fighters at the controls slug it out on screen. On the second player side stood a stocky boy with thick rimmed glasses. His sausage fingers prodded and flailed across the red and blue buttons without much grace. Holding the first player joystick, moving with precision timing, a tall teen with spiked red hair pummeled his opponent.

    As the bout pressed on, the shorter boy grew more frustrated. The spiky haired boy expanded his unrelenting grin. Dancing his fingers across the buttons, the punk’s digital avatar landed the finishing blow. A new challenger stepped up to replace the stocky boy only to be similarly slaughtered. One after another, the Punk’s opponents fell. All the while Dylan kept her eyes fixed on the red haired boy’s controls. Every button pressed matched the moves played out on the glowing arena on the screen and Dylan committed each jab, kick, and aerial maneuver to memory. She studied the artwork on the side of the cabinet. She took in every single pixel painted on the screen.

    Clearing his throat, ginger-knockoff-Johnny-Rotten spoke down to Dylan, “Haven’t got all day.”

    While Dylan was breathing in the the game, she hadn’t been paying attention to the line. Only now did she realize that she’d made it to the player two position. It was her turn. Quickly reaching into her right pocket, Dylan desperately searched for a quarter. Nothing. Her left pocket held nothing but lint. She couldn’t stand being this close to the controls and only fifty cents shy of being able to escape.

    Rolling his eyes, the red head kid chided, “Look, these games aren’t meant for those wearing a dress, little girl. How about you go run along? Sears Kitchen department is down that a-way.”

    Weak laughter rose from the crowd.

    Dylan was a better soldier than a daughter. Honor, respect, follow orders, she could do it all, but Dylan wouldn’t dare be told off by some random asshole in her new sanctuary. Mustering all the courage at her disposal, Dylan kept her eyes straight ahead at the screen and gripped the controls, “First round is on you. If you beat me, I’ll double your money.”

    More suppressed laughter from the crowd. Not about to be out done, the Ginger Boy slid a pair of quarters across the cabinet; “Your first lesson in humiliation is on me.”

    Dylan snapped back, “Your first lesson in humility is on me.” She cringed on the inside. That almost sounded like something Mark would say. Forcing her hands to stay steady, Dylan lifted the quarters off the control deck and slid them into the second player slot.

    With an abrupt chiptune fanfare, the character select screen appeared. Her opponent’s character was already selected; a green skinned man-beast with wild orange hair: Blanka. It suited his personality. Now Dylan felt the pressure to find herself among the eight available fighters. Man-beast was out. The one girl fighter available didn’t grab Dylan’s interest. Dark haired ninja, blonde ninja, sumo wrestler; no one really spoke to her. Maybe this was a mistake? Maybe this wasn’t her game?

    The crowd and the game itself grew restless. The game choose a character for Dylan. Next, the Ginger Boy’s fighter and Dylan’s avatar were headed to the USA on the game’s miniature globe circa 1991 to fight to the death. The stage opened up to the scene of an airbase. The Ginger’s character stood to the left, Dylan’s blonde and buff Airman readied himself on the right.

    An electronic refereere’s detached voice called the match, “Round one, FIGHT!”

    Somersaulting through the air at an impossible velocity, the green beast hurled into Dylan’s character. A series of relentless kicks and punches quickly beat the Airman into submission. Just like that, the first round was over.

    As the score was tallied, the Ginger sneered, “Maybe you should just walk away now?”

    Dylan gripped the controls tighter. The voice in the machine called out, “Round two, FIGHT!”

    With nothing left to lose, Dylan furiously mashed the buttons. She’d watched the Red Head Kid use the right most buttons as his strongest attacks. The same principle applied to Dylan’s Airman. She didn’t leave the Ginger Kid any room to counter attack. Wave after wave of roundhouse kicks and punches eventually sent the Ginger’s green skin beast into the asphalt, crying out in slow motion to the satisfying sound of, “You Win.”

    Not at all phased, the Punk laughed, “You really think your luck will hold out?”

 

    Dylan’s wrists were on fire. Palms and fingers were sweaty. It was the same feeling she had before her fourth grade orchestra recital. Her mother had been there that night trying to calm Dylan’s nerves. Holding onto Dylan’s wrists, her mom spoke softly, “Don’t worry about following along with everybody else, okay?”

    “Mom, they’re all gonna know if I sound awful,” Dylan whispered.

    “They,” gesturing to the other students in the orchestra pit, “They are not important, darlin’.” Aubry Yates held up her daughter’s sheet music, “Worrying won’t get you anywhere. Focus on the music. Feel every single note that you play.” Dylan was nearly convinced that her mom was right. Then, as always, Dylan’s mom pointed to her daughter’s heart and asked, “What is this?”

    Feigning embarrassment, Dylan whispered, “My heart.”

    Her mom continued, “How powerful is it?”

    Making sure no one was watching Dylan replied, “All powerful.”

    Finally, Dylan’s mom concluded the mantra, “Who does it belong to?”

    Clenching her fist, the tiny ritual dispelled Dylan’s worries just it had always done; “My heart is my own, all powerful, courageous, and wise.”

 

    The disembodied referee broke through the memory, “Round three, FIGHT!”

    With the memory of her mother fading, Dylan’s concentration on the game intensified. Her focus on the screen was so intense that Dylan’s consciousness passed through the glass barrier between the real and the digital world. No longer did Dylan hear the buzzing of halogen lamps above her. Instead, the powerful pixelated sun beat down upon her crew cut hair. She could smell the jet fuel sizzling off the tarmac. F-16 Tomcat fighter jets roared off the runway in the distance.

 

    Dylan was in the game.

 

    Dylan wore the fatigues of the Airman the game had chosen for her. Across from her, flexing his swollen muscles, was the green skinned monster, Blanka. His red mane blew wildly in the breeze as he charged ahead. Without fear or hesitation, Dylan leapt in the air, ready to strike.

    Blanka countered, wrapping his body in electricity like an eel. Pain surged through Dylan’s body as she fell back hard on the pavement. The monster wasn’t finished. Blanka pressed the attack. Clawed-hands furiously swiped at Dylan as she leapt backwards mere centimeters out of range.

    Fortunately, Dylan found her opening. Blanka swiped high. Dylan ducked and swept the legs of from under the green beast. With her opponent off balance, Dylan added a low kick, mid kick, and a roundhouse sending Blanka flying backwards and crashing through a pile of wooden crates.

    Pressing forward, Dylan was about to land an inverted kick when the monster once again wrapped himself in a cocoon of electricity. She could almost hear him laughing over the crackle of lightning arcing across his skin.

    Dylan looked up into the sky. Suspended above them both was a digital timer counting down. Beside the clock were two health bars. The advantage went to Blanka. As long as the beast kept up his defense, Dylan would lose the match.

    Laughing over the electricity, The Punk kid spoke through his digital avatar, “You won’t button mash your way out of this one, little girl.”

    Dylan grinned, “No, I won’t. That’s why I spent the last two rounds attempting all the different button combinations for my special moves.” Blanka grit his teeth. There was no way some newbie player would have randomly figured out the combos. She was bluffing. The Punk decided he couldn’t afford the gambit. Breaking from his prone position into a full sprint Blank rushed his opponent.

    Dylan’s airman stood at the ready. Already backing up in anticipation of Blank’s attack, Dylan suddenly shifted and lunged forward. In one sweeping motion, Dylan channeled all the horrendous energy that been swirling around in her mind for the last week; all the pain, the rage, and sorrow formed into a concentrated disc of energy. With all her might, Dylan hurled everything she hated about the hand fate dealt her at the Beast quickly approaching. That white disc spiraled through the air and connected with Blanka driving him back down into the pavement with a sonic boom.

    Dylan blinked in amazement.

    Just like that, with her hands shaking, Dylan returned to the dim arcade to the sound of mild applause. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Dylan ran her sweaty palms through her long blonde hair. Something came over her and before the words could be filtered Dylan chided, “You want a rematch?”

    The Punk scoffed, “Look,” he said pointing to the game cabinets around the room, “You see those machines? You know whose initials are in the top slots of all those scoreboards?”

    Still taking in deep, satisfied breathes, Dylan asked, “Anyone important?”

    Dylan’s high was interrupted by the baritone sound of disappointment, “Dylan. Ashley. Yates.” Slowly turning to meet her father’s gaze, he stood like a sentinel in the entrance of the arcade. One twin’s wrist was held in an iron grip in each of the Colonel’s massive hands. “Let’s go, young lady.”

    He wouldn’t ask again. Before Dylan sulked out of the arcade, a hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around the Punk growled, “I’ll be expecting that rematch, Dylan.” Releasing his grip, Dylan shoved the ginger aside and ran past her father out into the mall’s concourse. So much for her sanctuary. So much for a chance at peace. What good was a safe haven that couldn’t keep reality at bay? Despite her anger, Dylan wouldn’t give up that quickly.

    She would return.

    She would fight.

    Dylan would claim her labyrinth and make for herself a new home.


	2. Runway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden struggles with his desire to find a new life and craving for stability at home until the decision is made for him through a violent encounter.

St. Louis, MO 

    Aiden pumped his legs in and out. In and out. Every time the tire swing shot him backwards, he’d tense his muscles and pull hard on the frayed rope as if tilling a the sails on a great pirate ship. When the tire rocketed forward, wind racing through his feathered auburn hair, he’d stretch out his legs as far as they could possibly reach. Try as he might, he could never seem to stretch far enough.

    After all, how far could a thirteen year old expect to go flying on a tire swing? Now that he thought about it, the chances were greater that one of the older boys from the block would see Aiden and pound him into last week. Dragging his heels against the ground, Aiden brought the tire swing to a stop and dismounted. It was getting dark. Of all the great ideas swarming about in Aiden’s head, staying out late in his neighborhood wasn’t one of them.

    Staying at home wasn’t really a great idea either. Of course, it would be just as much a stretch for Aiden to call where he lived a home as it would be to fly away via tire swing. Aiden made his way down the broken sidewalk and tired not to think about it. Think positive his mom would say. At least they had a house, food, and… what else did you really need?

    The answer came to Aiden in a snap: stability.

    True, there was always ‘a’ house. Conversely he’d never been to ‘the’ house. If Aiden really wanted to stretch, he wanted to know that after his two miles walk, he’d have actually walked home. Pulling on the few sinapses left in his mind that reminded Aiden of Wales, he conjured a weak smile. At least there was an idea of what home was. Most of the kids in his class didn’t even have that. One of his friends, Markus lived in a Troubled Teens Home; a dorm with a handful of other junior highers and senior high students who had the options of either juvenile hall or jail. Unfortunately, Markus turned eighteen halfway through the spring semester. After graduation, he was too old for the home. He didn’t want to believe it, but Aiden might have been coming around to the idea that home was just a fleeting thing.

    One more mile to go. A five-thousand-foot chance to build up a mental resistance to what he’d most likely be walking into once he reached the house. This year, Aiden’s house was a brick duplex built back in the early sixties. He was almost certain whoever the tennant was in the attached unit to their left, they’d had died about a month ago. The overpowering smell of death seeped in under the floorboards during the day and baked the house in a putrid rotting smell. Most nights, against his mother’s protest, he slept with the windows open. Sure, someone could have broken in through the window at night, but Aiden saw it two ways; stay awake thinking about the smell of death all night, or risk being killed in his sleep dreaming of a better life.

    Aiden’s mother had raised him to be practical, conservative, and by necessity self reliant. Dreaming was one of only three luxuries allotted to him in between school and taking care of the house, his mom, and himself. The second perk was that the public library was less than four miles away from his house. A short hour and a half walk and all the knowledge in the world was at his fingertips. The third final amenity of East Saint Louis, and that was really stretching, was the Downtown Airport was also within spitting distance. Aiden’s biological father had been a pilot in the Royal Air Force. With every passing airliner that shook their decades-old-apartment, Aiden was reminded that somewhere in the past there had been someone who loved him.

    Not to harp on his mom; Aiden knew she cared. Practically speaking it’s hard to show you care and hold down two to three jobs at a time. Harder still when his mom tried to hold down whatever man was currently couch or bed surfing through their lives. That’s just how it was. Survive at all costs.

    ---

    Aiden arrived at the brick house that smelled of death. he heard the familiar sounds of tires squealing in the distance, women shouting at their children or boyfriends or whoever else in the surrounding apartments. Hip hop music pounded out through car stereos as they raced through crumbling residential streets. Aiden removed the key from around his neck and paused. The door was already ajar.

    His mom wasn’t due home from her shift at the casino for another three hours. Jeff or John had already moved out a week ago. Carl, or Connor maybe, was only there on Fridays. Tonight the house was Aiden’s until at least ten. With fists clenched, he braced for whatever could be on the other side and entered.

    Down the short hall, Aiden heard someone frantically rummaging through the closet in the master bedroom. Should he call out? Risk giving away his position? Aiden looked for something to use as a weapon. No use calling the police. By the time they came to this neighborhood, the apartment could be cleaned out, remodeled, painted, and auctioned off to the next tennant. Aiden grabbed the fire poker. Holding it up ready to strike, he cautiously stepped toward the unknown. Adrenaline pumped through his body. All doubts of being too young or his worldly possessions being too few to be worth dying over were held at bay. It was time to act.

    Aiden nudged the door of the master bedroom open with his foot. A high pitched scream erupted from the bedroom. Aiden relaxed his arms and drew a sigh of relief.

    Grabbing her chest, Allyson gasped, “Aiden, honey I was worried sick about you.”

    Aiden scanned the room, “I left a note. Library. Same as always. What’s with the suitcases.”

    Allyson tossed her son a duffle bag. Aiden caught it on reflex and took another step into the room, “Are we moving again?”

    Forcing a less than reassuring smile, Allyson got back to work shoving the rest of her clothes in a small carry on suitcase; “We’re going to go visit your uncle Bill for awhile.”

    Aiden racked his brain for any recollection of an Uncle Bill and came up empty; “Are we going to go see him tonight? Like, right now?”

    Allyson zipped up her suitcase and strode passed her son and into the living room. Another bag was tucked under her arm; “Yup. Right now. Grab your stuff, okay, Scout?”

    It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. Her voice trembled, unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth gave away the level of trouble they were in. Aiden had seen the same thing last year. They were in Michigan then. After living with some guy in Toronto for a few months, their temporary visas expired. Instead of flying back to Wales, they’d crossed the border into the US. Whoever his mom had been living with at the time had apparently gotten the idea that his overseas bride-to-be would endure regular beatings and verbal abuse. That guy was mistaken. He was also short a few hundred dollars when he came back to an empty house later that day.

    Michigan, Indiana, Illinois; always another job, another house, and another reason to pull up roots and run. There would always be another place. Never _their_ place. There would always be another job. Never _their_ livelihood. Food was always on the table, or the counter, or the dashboard of their trusty truck. Family dinners were a happy fantasy. Life was always in motion. Right when Aiden had almost solidified in one of the worst parts of Missouri, he was reminded that the tides had changed and the rapids of his life were flowing again.

    Darting to his room, Aiden threw his library books in the dufflebag his mom had tossed him. The rest of his clothes, conveniently enough were already in another suitcase. That was it. Two suitcases, a black backpack and his world was ready to spin again. Even if the suitcases and backpack where to catch fire, there was really only one worldly possession he’d lose sleep over; a well worn copy of the Boy Scouts of America Handbook.

    When they first moved to Ann Arbor, Aiden’s mom signed him up for the Scouts. Back when she still tried to make it feel like there was a sense of object permanence in Aiden’s life. She’d send him to the Scout Meetings, a handful of Scout Trips, and even got a new uniform. It was a happy distraction for a time. He’d ranked up to First Class having worked on all four ranks simultaneously (Scout, Tenderfoot, Second and First Class.) Unfortunately for Aiden, he needed to be in the same troop, in the same place for more than four months to earn Star Scout. That wasn’t bound to happen any time soon.

    Survival was the name of the game, but Aiden wasn’t content to simply survive. He would master the art of staying alive at all costs, in all situations, by any means necessary. So it was that Aiden helped his mother cram as much non perishable goods, toilet paper, and kitchenware into plastic grocery bags.

    In only a few short minutes they were ready to go.

    Then Connor stepped through the doorway.

    Thick black beard, and glazed over eyes, Connor stood in the doorframe like a bear clutching a six pack of forties in one massive paw. Reaching up to his chin, Connor combed his oil stained fingers through his beard. The silence of that man standing in the doorway, staring down at mother and son, was almost as heavy as Connor himself.

    Aiden’s eyes grew wide. He’d left the fire poker in the bedroom. He really wished he hadn’t. It was a rare occasion that his mother’s ‘friends’ beat him, but not rare enough that Aiden didn’t learn how to defend himself. Still, when your opponent has the height, reach, and a hundred pound advantage on you, chances are you’d want the fire poker.

    In a low grumble, Conner dropped the beers on the table beside the couch; “What’s all this?”

    Allyson reached into her pocket and slipped Aiden the keys to the truck; “We’re cleaning up.”

    Conner looked at Aiden eyeing the beers, then back to Allyson, “House looks fine. Hows about you put that shit away and you and I have a chat the money you owe me?” Allyson subtly signaled for Aiden to go out back. Taking a cautious step backwards, Aiden froze as Connor shouted’ “I ain’t gonna repeat myself, boy. All of us are gonna have a talk about responsibility ‘round here.”

    Allyson dropped her voice to a sultry growl, “Maybe we should do more than talk?” Of all the voices his mother could perform, her seductive voice was one that triggered his gag reflex every single time. Allyson took a step closer however, and Aiden took his cue to bolt through the kitchen towards the back door.

    Connor again shouted, “Get the fuck back in the house, kid!”

    Aiden didn’t look back. He pushed through the metal screen door and jumped as it slammed shut behind him. He knew the routine; load the truck, wait in the cab, lock the doors. The rest of his mental energy would be spent thinking about anything besides whatever it was his mom had to do to distract whoever she happened to be with. He was thirteen. He knew what she. He heard every sound and wished he the capability to unhear every sound. It wasn’t like sex grossed him out. His mom had always been direct, open, and honest with him about sex. Often times Aiden considered too much honesty was not always the best policy.

    Five minutes. Ten minutes. An hour. Aiden waited in the truck rocking back and forth in the driver’s seat. One hand on the key. One hand on the door. An hour was normal. Sometimes two hours if the relationship was in the honeymoon phase. Clearly, sometime between breakfast and now, things between Connor and Aiden’s mom had taken a turn for the worst. Eyeing the rear kitchen door, Aiden began to sweat when it was Connor who staggered out into the driveway. It was too late to duck out of sight. Aiden had been spotted.

    Connor pointed a can of Budweiser towards the passenger side window; “Get out of there, kid.” Aiden froze. What happened to his mom? Why did he leave the fire poker behind? Connor barked again, “I know you ain’t deaf, get out of the truck right now!”

    Only a few more steps until Connor reached the passenger door.

    Be calm.

    Be prepared.

    Be brave.

    Connor dropped the beer can and grabbed hold of the door handle. With his free hand, the hulking man pounded on the window. Carefully Aiden shifted in his seat. He took a calming breath. Connor continued to pound on the glass. Aiden subtly lifted both his feet up onto the seat and coiled himself into a tight spring. Be prepared. Outside Connor hollered obscenities. There was only one chance to get the timing right on this increasingly stupid plan. Aiden had to be brave.

    When Conner yanked up on the door handle, in one fluid movement Aiden unlocked and kicked out the door with both feet. If he were sober, the door may have simply struck and inconvenienced Connor. Fortunately, he’d been pregaming hard before his arrival and collapsed backwards onto the pavement. Aiden pulled the keys from the ignition, sprang from the truck and ran back into the house.

    His heart was pounding. His brow was beading with sweat. Aiden shouted for his mom, but couldn’t get the words out of his throat. Could he even breath right now? Don’t panic. Be brave. His mom was lying motionless, blouse unbuttoned, face up on the couch. At least she was still breathing. Kneeling beside her, Aiden shook his mom’s shoulder hard, “Mom! Wake up! You have to wake up right now!”

    She mumbled an unintelligible response.

    Darting into the kitchen, Aiden began to fill a glass of water. That’s when he heard Connor roar back to life. Glancing over his shoulder, Aiden watched as his opponent stumbled up to his feet. Don’t panic, be brave, and lock the back door. After he’d secured the door, Aiden rushed back to his mom with the glass of cold water and tossed the contents in her face. She gasped to life.

    Aiden shook his mom once more, “We have to go. You have to stand up, right now.”

    Wiping her face and butting up her blouse halfway, Allyson stood up and started for the backdoor. Grabbing his mom by the wrist, Aiden pulled her off the couch as Connor began pounding at the back door. His incoherent shouts would have disturbed any other neighborhood. In this place, it was just par for the course. Another night, another round of domestic abuse. Same thing different night.  
   

    Tugging at his dazed mom’s arm, Aiden ordered, “Front door.”

    At least moderately in command of her senses, Allyson gathered up the bags and stumbled for the front door. Connor had stopped pounding. He was probably rounding the side of the building to try the front door. If they hurried, they might be able to run out the front and round the otherside of the duplex before he spotted them.

    Aiden followed his mom as they locked and closed the door behind them. With bags in hand they sprinted full tilt down the block around to the back of the line of Duplexes on 29th Street. They ran through the field of dead grass. They ran to the their driveway. They always ran.

    Winded, Aiden and Allyson approached Becky the Unkillable. Across country, county, and state lines, their 1978 cherry-red Ford Bronco had never, and probably would never die. Aiden almost considered the truck a constant in his life. The nature of automobiles however is that they were designed to move, not remain stationary. Stay positive, he muttered. At least they had a means of escape. At least Connor was still busy screaming and pounding at the front door. At least his mom was conscious, running and the wound on her head wasn’t bleeding too badly.

    Climbing into the truck, Allyson slid over into the passenger seat.

    Aiden didn’t miss a beat. He was nervous. He was sweating bullets. He nevertheless climbed into the driver’s seat and buckled his seatbelt. They’d need to get across the river. Head west, into the suburbs. When there was a significant distance between Connor and the rotting apartment, then they’d look for a CVS or a clinic. He checked his mirrors. He turned the key. Shifting the truck into gear, Aiden pulled forward and out of the driveway.

    In the rearview mirror, Aiden caught his last glimpse of Connor. The enraged man-child threw his beer can out into the street. The boy shifted his eyes back to the road ahead. Aiden reassured himself outloud of the plan, “We’ll get across the river. Get some distance. Get to a clinic.” Quickly glancing at his mom, Aiden shook his mom by the shoulder, “Mom, I need you to stay awake. You can’t fall asleep if you have a concussion, okay? Stay awake!”

    Allyson nodded, “I’m awake.”

    Aiden asked in as calm and clinical a voice as he could muster, “Tell me where we’re going?”

    Groggy, Allyson bobbed her head, “We’re going to Uncle Bill’s.”

    Aiden took a deep breath, “First we’re going west, to an urgent care center.”

    Allyson drummed her hands on the dashboard trying to wake herself up, “West. Urgent care. Ok.”

    It would legally be another three years since he could get his permit, but that didn’t stop Aiden from going to the DMV and grabbing every pamphlet he could on how to drive. He checked his mirrors. He signaled for every lane change. He kept his speed just a hair above the posted limit not to draw attention. All he had to do was drive. All he could ever do was survive. Just keep heading west. Make it across the river. Find a clinic. If he could keep himself and his mom alive, then he’d worry about who and where this Uncle Bill was.


	3. Paper Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered her natural affinity for Street Fighter II, Dylan's craving to make a mark on the arcade leads to unwise actions.

Dallas, TX 

 

    Dylan sat cross legged at the head of her bed scowling at the violin case propped up on the chair in the corner of her room. The violin case didn’t look back. That oddly shaped reminder of her mother simply sat there, mocking, judging Dylan as she longed for her new passion. Her new obsession had transformed her inside and out. Video games weren't just for boys. She’d proved that hours earlier. With her own hands on the controls, Dylan had bested her first opponent. That feeling of control left her craving more.

    Currently, Dylan had been sentenced to the attic. It was a fully furnished space, sure; new bed, new paint, even a new twenty-two inch television all her own. The truth was, even as the first born of her father, Dylan was last to arrive in the new family. She got the leftovers. It wasn’t her room, it just happened to be available. Ever since her mom left, Dylan had been completely out of control. She felt untethered to the earth at best, and a torn kite in a hurricane at her worst. Dylan desperately wanted some sense of agency to her life; even if that something was an imaginary world within a screen.

\---

    For her ninth birthday, Dylan opened a bright red box and was immediately struck with confusion. Looking up at her mother smiling across the kitchen table, Dylan tried to recall having asked for a violin or any instrument for that matter. Had she even talked about music with her mom? Dylan listened to hip-hop, but the thought of begging her mom for a pair of turntables never crossed her mind.

    Scratching her head, Dylan carefully lifted the violin out of the gift box; “Thank you?”

    Her mom chuckled, “I’ve heard you singing in the shower. I’m curious to see if the musical gene skipped a generation and was gifted to you.”

    Dylan contorted her face in embarrassment even though they were at home and out of earshot of anyone; “Mom, I told you not to listen when I’m in the shower!”

    Deborah grinned, “You know, Darlin’, I tried not listing but the thing about sound in a tiny apartment is it traveled into my ears anyway. I’m so sorry.” With a forced pout, Dylan crossed her arms and examined the violin. Deborah rolled her eyes, “You know, if ya give it a try, you might find you’ve got a talent for music. Or, you can learn the recorder with the rest of the underachievers in your class?”

    Dylan laughed, “I’ll still have to learn ‘Hot Crossed Buns’ though.”

    Deborah tussled her daughter’s hair, “Yeah, but now you get to learn ‘Hot Crossed Buns’ in a sharp black dress on stage with the smart kids.”

    With a whine, Dylan protested, “Mom, I’m not one of smart kids.”

    Deborah pointed two fingers at Dylan in objection, “Yes you are. Even if you weren’t, which you are, playing the violin makes you look extra smart. That’s what they say ya know; girls who play the violin are smart and sophisticated. Just takes practice is all.”

    Pinching the violin by the neck and lifting it back out of the box like a dead kitten, Dylan responded dryly, “You know, they also say people who play the guitar have friends.”

    Dylan’s  mom collected the ceramic plates smeared with frosting and cake crumbs and headed into the kitchen. Speaking over her shoulder, Deborah added, “Fans aren’t the same as friends, and most of those guitarists wind up dead by twenty-seven.”

\---

    Two hours a day for three years. Dylan learned to play the violin competently. She wasn’t passionate about it, but she was satisfied in her ability. Her mom was overjoyed. Dylan was definitievly satisfied. But, that’s what bothered her most. It wasn’t enough for Dylan to simply be satisfactory at something. There was no joy in reading sheet music and following along. Maybe if she had cared more, Dylan might have developed an ear and the patience to compose her own music. But, it was too late for that now. Dylan had discovered something infinitely more satisfying than writing songs that no one would want to listen to anyway.

    At ten minutes after nine, the craving within Dylan compelled her to lace up her Converse sneakers, pull on a pair of black bike shorts, and her size-too-small NWA T-Shirt. She bundled up in her pink checkered poncho; the last present she’d received from her mom. Seven days since the flight over,  it still smelled like a thousand beach bonfires. It was the warmest piece of armor she owned and Dylan vowed to never wash the smell of California out of it for as long as she lived. Of course if Dylan’s dad caught her tonight, she’d die a lot sooner than all those rock stars in the twenty-seven club.

    Dylan’s craving proved stronger than her doubts. She opened the third story window. The night offered only a modest reprieve from the hellfire of  day. Cool evening air slipped it’s fingers through Dylan’s hair as she stepped out through the portal and into the dark. Of course, dark was relative; plenty of orange tinted street lamps held the true night at bay. Even the moonlight above was washed out by artificial light.

    With a firm grip on the window sill, Dylan eased her feet down onto the ledge. The asphalt shingles still crunched under her lightweight. She found her footing and pressed her body up against the sloped roof. Lying as flat as possible, a casual observer from below would have seen a young blonde girl army crawling laterally across the roof. Fortunately for Dylan, the streets were empty: they were always empty.

    Fifteen nervous feet later, Dylan came to the indent in the roof between the second floor loft and the Twins’ bedroom. She took a deep breath and carefully lowered herself down. Dylan’s arms were quaking. She’d only ever managed to complete two pull-ups in gym. Had Dylan really thought she’d gained the strength of the Airman from the game? No. Even if she were delusional, it was too late to turn back now. The toes of her Converse found the ledge and Dylan let herself down. All she had to do was shimmy hand over hand to the edge of the second story roof to the oak tree in the front lawn.

    When Dylan reached the front of the house, her heart began to pound faster than before. She’d misjudged the distance by a wide margin. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her? That oak tree definitely appeared to be within jumping distance from the ground earlier. There weren’t many other options left. Her arm strength was depleted. No going back. Jumping down without the tree meant dropping twelve to thirteen feet. Then she made her second mistake; Dylan actually looked down. Her breath was shorter now. Dylan’s heart pounded like a machine gun. The front lawn was a million miles below her.

    Dylan had to remember why she was out here. She called upon the craving; the power, the courage. Those two attributes reignited inside Dylan’s terrified heart and canceled out the significant lack of wisdom it took to climb out a third story window. She had to jump.

    On three.

    She’d definitely jump on three.

    She’d jump right after the count of three.

    Four. Five. Six seconds later, Dylan was still shaking and making up calculations for how long it would take her to die after the fall and landing head first on the pavement. No, she couldn't die. Not yet. More importantly, she couldn’t live with herself simply being a girl with beginner's luck. She had to know. She had to become the best. She had to jump, right now.

    Three.

    Two.

    One!

    She slipped. Her trembling legs failed to give enough push off from the ledge. Arms flailing, voice too terrified to scream, Dylan reached out and grabbed the nearest branch. The first branch snapped underneath her weight, but the second halted her decent: damn near teared her arms out of their sockets. She wrapped herself around the oak limb until her stomach walked itself back down from her throat.

    Dylan’s heart temporarily ceased its efforts to burst out of her chest. Maneuvering her body down the tree, she touched down on solid ground.

    Adrenaline still surged through her veins. The craving stronger than before. She dashed through the shadows to the side yard where the bikes was kept. At last, nothing stood in Dylan’s way from conquering the arcade and claiming it as her own.

\---

    Thirty minutes later, having rode through empty suburban streets and across browning grass fields, Dylan returned to StoneBriar Mall. She coasted sidesaddle on her bike through the nearly vacant parking lot. She still had an hour to settle her score. Jamming her bike into the metal rack, Dylan jogged through the sliding glass doors and inside the newly built Mecca of Americana.

   

    Muzak flowed over the erie recycled air. Dylan continued to jog through what felt like a refurbished cathedral. Hushed voices of the few remaining consumers floated past her. Only a few more feet to the Arcade. Only a few more feet till she regained control. Only a few more feet until Dylan satisfied the craving burning within.

 

    Behind the counter in the back of the room, with a Game Informer Magazine in front of his face, a sturdy man called out to another employee across the arcade, “Nate, we’re closing up shop in fifteen.”

    Nate, a tall black man in a similarly dressed blue polo and black slacks didn’t turn from the game that held his attention, “Only need another minute to finish up here, TopHat.”

    Winded, Dylan strode up to the counter. The man behind the counter lowered his magazine. His well groomed dark beard framed his smile; “We’re closing up soon. What can I do for you?”

    Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, Dylan slapped a Hamilton on the counter, “Forty-- Forty quarters. Please.”

   

    Dylan’s breath was stable now. Her heart rate level. Nerves were non-existent. In this place, in front of this very machine is where Dylan belonged. Nothing had felt so certain, so right, in the last week or month or years than being in this dumpy mall arcade. Her eyes watched the intro credits play on screen and break into the high score chart. Every single slot, all five spaces had the same three initials…

    W.O.W.

    For a moment, Dylan considered guessing what the initials stood for. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Those three letters wouldn’t be on the screen for long. Dylan stuffed nine dollars and fifty cents in her right pocket. With two quarters pinched between her fingers, Dylan almost slid the coins into the first player spot. She stayed her hand. Dylan’s first victory was from the second player position. For continuity sake, she’d play the same side.

    Dylan’s fingers gently pushed the coins into the slot.

    An electronic chorus erupted to life.

    Away went the real world.

    Dylan dove into the virtual.

\---

    Lemon-grass, jasmine, and salt water filled Dylan’s lungs. The roar of the tide pounding against the Thai Shoreline and the murmur of digital onlookers did not distract from Dylan’s unflinching gaze. Once again, she donned the camouflage pants and tank top of Guile, the Airman. In the span of what felt like days, Dylan had flown across the world pounding the living snot out of ninjas, wrestlers, and boxers. Now, standing ten meters across from Dylan at nearly two meters high, stood the dreaded M. Bison. He looked like the cross between Benito Mussolini and an umpire for the Texas Rangers. The final boss discarded his royal blue cape and twisted his face into an evil grin.

    Dylan had defeated eleven of the world’s fiercest warriors. She’d have a dozen under her belt in the next two minutes or less. Standing between two massive gold statues, both combatants waited for the otherworldly voice to start the match.

    From somewhere beyond, the announcer bellowed, “FIGHT!”

   

    Bison leapt from the ground straight up into the air. Dylan didn’t have enough time to react as both of his steel-toed-boots landed directly on top of her head. She rolled backwards. Bison’s follow up punch missed her by a hair’s width. The Dictator’s fists flew so fast they caught fire. He was relentless. He was fast as lightning. He was immensely powerful. M. Bison showed Dylan everything he had in his combat arsenal.

    Just as Dylan Predicted.

    Dylan dogged Bison’s punches. She leapt over his sliding kicks. Bison continued his assault and only managed to hit the breeze left in Dylan’s wake. After nearly running down the clock, Dylan was satisfied she had seen everything her opponent could throw at her. That’s when she went on the attack.

    After another flying assault came across the stage, Dylan leapt into the air and land her bootheel down onto the back of Bison’s neck. He sunk face first into the concrete. Before the dictator could stand, a sweeping kick to the head knocked him up and a roundhouse knocked him back. Dylan didn’t let Bison land without first leaping into the air after him and grabbing him by the throat. In midair, Dylan twisted Bison into position and broke his back over her shoulders as they came back down to earth.

    Low punch, mid-punch, uppercut, Bison couldn't disengage from Dylan’s flawless assault. Once again in the air, Bison found his descent back to the ground interrupted by Dylan flying into a somersault kick. Struck under the jaw once, twice, and on the third time, the Dictator’s lifeless body flew like a ragdoll into the gawdy golden statue. Just as easily as Dylan broke Bison, the golden facade crumpled atop the broken man.

   

    Dylan stood victorious.

 

    Before she could land the death blow, a woman Dylan didn’t recognize ran through the crowd of shocked acolytes of the defeated tyrant. With a young girl in tow, the woman embraced and kissed Dylan. Dylan pried herself from the woman’s embrace. The stranger pleaded, “Please dear, killing Byson won’t bring Charlie back. It will only make you a murderer. Please, come back home.”

\---

Before Dylan could ask who Charlie was, her finger must have slipped hit one of the buttons. The credits rolled and a blinking cursor in the top right hand corner impatiently asked for her initials. Dylan didn’t hesitate…

    **D.A.Y.**

    The screen changed again, and the leaderboard appeared. That high of victory was only slightly diminished as Dylan read the ranking aloud, “Fifth place. Huh. I think could do better.” She fished in her shorts for another fifty cents. Determined, Dylan waited for the character select screen, “I can do better.”

 

    Almost an hour later, after sending four dozen enemies to video game hell, D.A.Y. held the top five slots on the high score chart. Exhausted, hands sweating, and eyes burning Dylan came out of her trance to the sound of applause. The young girl whipped around to see Tom, the sturdy man with the beard, and Nate standing behind her. They nodded, impressed.

    Tom was the first to offer a halfhearted congratulations, “That little punk is gonna pitch a fit when he comes in to see all his scores cleared out.”

    Nate laughed, “Wiley? Kid had it coming.”

    Dylan rose an eyebrow, “Wiley?”

    Rolling his eyes, Tom sighed, “Wiley Olson Wells, grade ‘A’ jerk, finally beaten by...” Tom jestedered to the game cabinet.

    Dylan stood up straight, “Yates. Dylan Ashley Yates.”

    Tom grinned, “Well, Ms. Yates, we’re both impressed, but we’re closed. We’ve actually been closed for about an hour now. Thanks for playing. We’d like to go home now.” He waved hand to the entrance. Dylan didn’t move.

    Still clutching the joystick, Dylan petitioned, “Please, let me at least play the rest of my quarters.”

    Nate slapped Tom on the back, “Come on, let the new Captain’ O’ the Arcade play, TopHat. What’s another round before closing?”

    Tom huffed out, “Fine. Final round.” Dylan shook her pocket full of change and withdrew another fifty cents. Tom held up his fist, “Wait, how many quarters do you have left?”

    Like a human calculator, Dylan spat out, “Seven-fifty.”

    Nate and Tom glanced at each other in disbelief.

    Tom turned back to Dylan skeptical, “You still have seven-fifty?”

    Dylan nodded.

    The store clerk checked the highscore board again once it flashed on the screen, “You beat Street Fighter II five times, in a little over an hour?”

    Dylan grinned, “Five playthroughs, fifty cents each, average of twenty minutes or so, that leaves me with seven fifty. Yup. That last one took me a little less cause I got a few perfect rounds.”

    Nate clapped his hands together, “This is the one, Tom. This is the one we been waiting for.”

    Tom waved his hands, “No. No, Nate. I’m tired. I open again tomorrow. We’ll talk about it--”

    Dylan cut him off, “Talk about what?”

    Nate ran over to the counter, hopped over, grabbed a flyer and vaulted himself back over the glass countertop while he shouted at the top of his lungs, “The DAX!”

    Dylan tilted her head, “The DAX?”

    Quickly, Tom recited the pitch from memory, “The DAX IV, The fourth annual Dallas Arcade Expo and gaming tournament. Prizes, honor, glory yada yada yada… look take the flier, call the hotline. The arcade is closed. Come back again. Thanks for playing.”

    Nate shook his head, dreadlocks flying from side to side, “Nah, TopHat, we sponsoring this one.”

    Tom was already ushering Dylan towards the exit, “We’ll talk about it later. We were supposed to be closed an hour and a half ago, so let’s get to it, yeah?”

    Dylan pivoted and planted her feet on the checkered tile outside the storefront; “I’ll do it.”

    Tom reached up for the metal gate, “Great. You’ll do what?”

    As the metal divider came down between Tom and Dylan, she pleaded, “I’ll beat the DAX.”

    Tom laughed, “You don’t just… Look, you’ve got some skill. The guys that show up are professional gamers. They’re pros. They make their living playing video games, you get me?”

    Dylan scowled, “I don’t play video games. I beat video games.”

    Tom raised an eyebrow and threw up his hands, “Alright, alright, fine. Fill out the flier, drop it off back here and we’ll see what you’ve got. Deal?”

    Overwhelmed, Dylan tried to contain herself but couldn’t. She bit her lower lip so hard it almost started to bleed. When she finally opened her mouth all she could say was, “Aces.”

\---

    Aces? What a dork. It didn’t matter. Dylan didn’t care. She was going to train to become the best gamer in this godforsaken hell hole. Her high was too massive to be diminished by an inability to represess an overwhelming sense of giddiness. Dylan had sprinted from the arcade, out of the mall and into the cool night air. Black sky and moonlight was still washed out by street lamps and a massive LCD billboard. Even out here the digital and artificial world seemed to be more gaining more power over the real. But, just when Dylan thought nothing could bring her down, the rug was pulled out from under her.


	4. Holding Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allyson drives the duo south to find the mysterious Uncle Bill, while Aiden experiences a life-changing epiphany.

    Aiden woke up alone in the passenger seat of his mother’s truck. He couldn’t remember when he’d passed out. They had made it across the Missouri River. They found a twenty-four hour clinic that didn’t ask too many questions. His mom only had a minor concussion; nothing a handful of Tylenol couldn’t cure. After swallowing her quick fix, Allyson took over the wheel. Mother and son headed south, to Uncle Bill… however he was. Some time after they’d crossed the Missouri border and during the drive through Arkansas, Aiden lost the battle with sleep deprivation. Afterall, adrenaline and the recycled trauma of leaving everything behind can only keep a person awake for so long.

Wiping his eyes, Aiden focused on the dimly lit sign above the storefront; Greenville Liqueur. It was the only store in the lot. A whole field length laid between both the animal hospital to the right and whatever nondescript building was to the left of the liquor store. The distance made the other buildings appear to be repulsed by the mere presence of the filthy, decades old convenience store. Maybe it was because he couldn’t determine whether it was early morning or still late at night, but Aiden considered whether or not a store could be considered ‘convenient’ if it was in the middle of nowhere?

After another minute of failing to get his bearings, Aiden saw his mom stumble out of the liquor store. The boy leapt from the truck cabin and jogged toward the entrance of the inconvenience store. His urgency subsided when he heard Allyson giggle.

Just to be safe, Aiden asked skeptically, “You alright?”

Allyson waved him off and kept walking towards the truck, “I’m fine, just tripped is all. Here, are you hungry? Thirsty?” Aiden’s mom removed a sixteen ounce plastic bottle of grapefruit juice and a bag of Jalapeno kettle chips. The boy’s eyes lit up. When he was in Michigan, Aiden had been bullied relentlessly and lost his fair share of lunches. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. Not then at least. Out of sheer spite, Aiden started packing snacks no average kid would want. No cookies. No soda. The strategy almost worked. Aiden lost fewer lunches by ensuring the contents were too bitter or set your mouth on fire. He still got beat up, but at least he didn’t go hungry.

Taking the chips and juice, Aiden offered his thanks with a smile, “So where are we?”

His mom patted the side of their truck and motioned for Aiden to enter, “We’re almost there.”

Swallowing a handful of chips, Aiden pressed for an answer, “What state would ‘there’ be?”

They had both climbed back into the truck and closed their doors simultaneously. It wasn’t choreographed or rehearsed. It was routine. In fact, Aiden just now began to consider how many times, how many random gas stations, and how long they’d both been on the run. The short answer: longer than being settled in any one place.

Turning the ignition over, Allyson brough the truck back to life. The engine roared; a restless dinosaur that refused to die. In addition to the rumbling of the truck, she could feel the concern Aiden tried to hide in his voice. It wasn’t easy to play the part of an optimist. Day in and day out, that’s exactly what Allyson did. It would always be the first and last performance she’d actually want to give.

With a careless smile, Allyson flippently laid out the details the way a flight attendant would address the cabin, “Well, passengers,” she started with one hand cupped over her mouth, “It’s a balmy seventy-four degrees in the AM hours here in Dallas, Texas. We’re only three minutes out, give or take, from our final destination so we’d like to remind our passengers to keep their seatbelts fastened, and tray tables stowed. Thanks again y’all for flying Busted Truck Airlines.”

    Aiden sighed, pretending to be unamused, “Is there any inflight information on who or what an Uncle Bill is?” Allyson drove the car forward out of the unkempt parking lot and turned north on South Greenville Avenue. That seemed to sum up their life: constantly pulled in two opposing directions. Aiden gave up trying to count how far they’ve traveled to ultimately end up nowhere. Maybe, he thought, they should simply give up on the expectation of actually arriving somewhere permanent? Or, maybe it was four in the morning and Aiden could worry about life when he was actually awake?

    Suddenly, Aiden was shook from his sleep depravity. All at once the boy was fully awake from the peak of his worried mind down into the depths of his soul. It took a moment for Aiden to fully grasp what he was looking at. At first glance, it seemed exactly as it appeared: a man flying through the air. Less than a car’s length away directly in front of the truck was a man floating thirty meters above the road and gently descending over the grass field. Aiden couldn’t get the words out. He simply jabbed an excited finger at the window. Surprisingly, his mother turned down the road parallel to the Flying Man.

    Lagging a few yards behind the Man, it became clear that the Miracle Man was in fact fabricated. But, what an astounding fabrication. Attached to the Flying Man’s back Aiden could hear the high pitched hum of a fan almost half his size. Aiden excitedly rolled down his window. He stuck his head out into the warm morning air, and the boy watched a large crescent sail start to swoop down behind the Man as he touched down to earth and jogged to a stop. The fluttering of blue and white nylon fabric and the smell of engine oil sent shockwaves through Aiden’s mind. An unformed thought began to rapidly take shape.

    Aiden must learn to fly.

    His mom turned away from the field where the Flying Man had landed. Before Aiden could protest, their truck was already in park and the engine switched off. They had arrived once again in the middle of nowhere. However, this particular nowhere was accompanied by an astounding mystery. Before Over Allyson’s objections Aiden had already stepped out of the truck, drawn to the Flying-Man with reckless abandon and unfiltered hope.

    Aiden’s synapses fired at a rate that made his brain burn. How high, how far, and how fast could that fan and motor take someone? No, not someone. Aiden needed to study every square millimeter of this machine that turned boys bound to earth into free men without any boundaries at all. Somewhere in the background of his analytical mind, a small voice even wondered, ‘ _ How could this thing make me more like my father _ ?’

 

    Aiden had nearly crossed the street that divided the parking lot where their truck was parked and the landing field when he noticed the Flying Man walking straight towards him. Still wearing the paramotor, the Flying Man’s chiseled arms cradled his carefully folded sail. A bright red beard hung braided down to his collar bones. Aiden couldn’t read the Man’s eyes under the goggles that covered his face, but froze in place as a gruff voice bellowed out and broke the morning stillness.

    The Flying Man’s thick Irish brogue shook the sky, “Ally! You should have phoned. Could’ve ‘ad breakfast ready for ya.”

    Aiden’s sleepy mind misfired, but slowly the dots connected themselves.

    Allyson walked past her son and stood before the Flying Man, “William, a gentleman through and through.” The Flying Man, William, Uncle Bill, simply gave a curt nod. Allyson yawned and asked, “Perhaps we could do lunch? I’ve a headache twice the size of this state and I’ve been driving all night.”

    Reaching out for his mother’s head, William pushed her auburn hair aside to examine the sizeable welt it had been hiding. Bill mumbled, “Look at the state of you.” Letting her hair fall back into place, William unceremoniously continued walking towards the large barn-sized grey building ahead of them. “Come on inside then. I’ll Show ya to yer quarters and get ya settled.”

    Aiden was still trying to piece together what the relation was to this sudden and abrupt uncle they had acquired. More accurately, as was often the case, William had acquired them. It had not gone unnoticed by Aiden that the Bill had not glanced in his direction. Typical. Disheartening, but typical.

    Allyson put on a sleepy smile, “Come on, my Scout. Let’s go see about our new digs, yeah?”

    Following after his mom toward the grey warehouse, Aiden, with backpack slung over his shoulder, comforted himself the way he had always done when diving into the unknown. Mumbling under his breath, Aiden repeated his abridged Scout oath, “On my honor, to myself and my family, I will do my best to carry out my responsabilites, obey the Scout Law, help others at all times, keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally flexible as the situation arises.”


	5. Kid Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Dylan's bike is stolen, a tense ride home ensues as Colonel Isaac Yates collects his daughter from the mall.

    The cold asphalt of the curb on which Dylan sat was nothing compared to the icy glare from her father. The pale black Crown Victoria idled in a low growl directly across from where she sat. The passenger door hung open. Dylan’s father glared down and through his daughter. His judgment wrapped itself around Dylan’s nerves and lungs like so many snakes.

    Barely above a whisper, Colonel Yates commanded, “Get in.”

    Dylan complied. Sinking into the leather seat the car was already in motion before she had a chance to close the door. The acceleration on the supercharged Crown Victoria police interceptor was powerful enough to give her bones the sensation that they’ve suddenly folded in on themselves. Coupled with the weight of guilt pressing down upon Dylan, she’d never been so claustrophobic inside an automobile than this moment, right now. Everything that she had been moments ago shrank, compressed into a single pixel. Everything closed in around her. Everything became darker.

    She shook.

    She gagged.

    She almost threw up in her mouth.

    In less than a week, Dylan lost her bike, her home, and her mother. But, just hours ago, she’d flown around the world. She defeated enemies around the globe and sent those villains straight to pixelated video-game-hell. Dylan experienced freedom. Total freedom. She could be anybody, go anywhere, and do anything with a fistful of quarters. Now, crushed by guilt and a car with monsterous horsepower, Dylan considered it might have been better never having known the awesome escape offered by video-games if would all be taken away from her.

    Colonel Yates slammed on the breaks at the intersection of Preston Road. He sat there, eyes transfixed on the empty road ahead. It was almost midnight. Dylan had debated for nearly an hour until she lost the never to walk home and finally call her dad for a ride.

The light turned green. The car continued to idle. In a growl almost too low to comprehend, Dylan’s father finally asked, “What’ve you got to say for yourself?” Dylan couldn’t speak. A black hole had opened itself up in her heart and pulled all rational thought down into an abyss of emotion. After another minute, the light at the intersection turned red. Her father pressed for an answer, “Nothing?”

    Something began to form in the back of Dylan’s mind. A singular thought desperately fought to escape the gravity well of pain and heartbreak. That thought nearly formed into a plain, cold, logical thought, but all that sorrow and rage weaved themselves into what would have been a simple answer. Instead, Dylan barked, almost vomited her response; “I had to win.” She tried to swallow her words, replace them with something dry and calm. It didn’t work. She coughed out again, almost in tears “I had to win, sir. I’m sorry.”

    More silence. More weight. More distance grew between father and daughter trapped inside a car stuck at an intersection without traffic. The light turned green. Her father jammed the gearshift up into park and punched the hazard lights on. He pivoted in his seat. His eyes burned. Dylan didn’t have any mental reference for what someone looked like before they responded with physical violence, but she imagined it would have been how her father looked at this moment.

    Colonel Yates didn’t move another inch. He glared down at his daughter fighting every parental urge to raise his voice. He lost the fight as he screamed, “Win what, Dylan? What was so damned important that you snuck out in the middle of the night, alone?”

    All of Dylan’s faculties to debate and argue were currently out of the office. Every ounce of mental energy was currently being used to keep herself from crying. Without breaking eye contact, Dylan’s voice came out smaller than before, “The boy, at the arcade… said I couldn’t beat him… my honor… my honor was on the line. I had to fight.”

    The Colonel turned in his seat. The light was red again. He took a deep breath. He was the adult. He had to be the one in control, set the example. Unfortunately, Isaac Yates, officer, husband, father, was too enraged for rational thought to catch up with the words flying from his mouth; “When you fight, you fight for something that’s real.”

    Dylan’s mouth hung open.

    Another deep breath, Colonel Yates quickly walked back his statement, “You have to fight for real, Dylan. You fight with your brain, you fight with your words, and as a last resort you fight with your fists.” He turned his neck, not looking at his daughter directly. Mr. Yates knew what he’d said, but he had to drive the point home. He couldn’t afford to lose the argument. He was the adult. In his best fatherly tone, he hammered home the lesson, “Video games aren’t real, Dylan. Your safety comes first. Do you have any idea what perverts around here would do to a girl your age at this time a night?”

    In a voice even smaller than before, Dylan whispered, “Yes.”

    The Colonel turned off the hazard lights and shifted down gear into drive. He waited for the light to turn as he moved on to sentencing, “You’ll spend the next week in your room leaving only to help repaint the shed. 1,600 words, handwritten, defining personal responsibility on my desk by Monday. Understood?”

    Dylan nodded half heartedly, “Sir, yes Sir.

    The light turned green. The car rolled forward. They turned right on Preston Bend. As they snaked their way through the suburbs, Dylan’s rational mind caught up to her. Those words her father said had gotten stuck in her throat; “Fight for something real.” She wanted so bad to spit them back in his face. As they approached the modest three story brick estate on Windbreak Trail, Dylan’s guilt began to melt and morph into molten anger. Was her honor really worth so little as to be considered unreal?

    A fireball spiraled down hill in Dylan’s brain and rapidly gathered contempt and bile. Fight for what’s real? The idea of home was only real until a judge overturns a court order and sends you packing to live back east. The idea of family was only real until that family dies. Lastly, the idea of safety only being available for young girls during daylight hours was actually complete horsehit.

    Dylan knew what was real. She had felt it, grabbed hold of it.

    The power.

    The control.

    What Dylan had experienced within the screen felt more real than anything that had happened to her in the shit show of a week she’d had. She chewed on that. No, Dylan wouldn’t let that feeling go. She wouldn’t bury the sensation of freedom. That feeling of freedom had taken root inside her and guilt was no longer a sharp enough tool to dismember the experience from Dylan.

    As her father pulled into the driveway, he threw the car into park, exited the driver’s seat and stormed off into the house. He didn’t look back. Dylan was alone again. However, the weight of having to be a good daughter had been melted down. That weight sat in her gut, digesting, disintegrating, melting down into fuel. A good daughter was no longer Dylan’s concern.

    She was a good soldier.

    She was a fighter.

    Dylan stood, eyes baked red from repressed tears and starring past the irritated glow of the orange street lamps. She looked up once more into the night sky. Thick midnight air blew through and engulfed the young girl. This would not be the end of Dylan’s new identity. Reaching into her back pocket, Dylan removed the folded flier advertising the DAX IV. She quickly skimmed the contents of the acclaimed contest. It was clear as night. This was her mission. In this present twilight, bathed in muted moonlight and baptised in the humid Texan air, Dylan gave up the guilt of trying to be a good daughter, and arose to the challenge of becoming a champion.

\---

    It was too hot in the attic for sheets. It was too hot for clothes. It was too hot for sleep. At a quarter to six in the morning, Dylan got dressed, cooked breakfast, and went outside to the shed in the backyard. By the time Dylan had finished her egg sandwich and removed the paint from the tool shed, it was already seventy degrees outside. The sun hadn’t even bothered to crest over the horizon and it was already uncomfortably warm. Seventy degrees in Long Beach was definitely a different animal from seventy degrees in Dallas. With any luck, Dylan would finish the second half of her punishment before lunch time.

    By seven O’Clock Dylan heard the house slowly come to life. The twins were up, fighting for the television in the loft. She could hear the coffee pot whistling on the burner. Mara must be in the kitchen behind her. The shower started running in the master bedroom to her right: her dad had finished his morning workout. Dylan had nearly completed her workout too. Swollen and aching, Dylan stretched her arms in the air towards the sadistic morning sun.

    Behind her, Dylan turned about face toward the sound of the sliding glass kitchen door rolling open. She stood at attention as her father stepped out into the backyard and the Colonel inspected his daughter’s work; spot checking for any untouched spaces on the two freshly painted sides of the shed.

    The Colonel offered a modest compliment as he stood before his daughter, “Not a bad start.”

    Dylan nodded, “Thank you, sir.”

    Colonel Yates took a step backwards and waved Dylan along, “Come on in for breakfast.”

    The young girl picked the paint roller back up, “Thank you, but I already ate.”

    Dylan’s father dropped the half smile from his face and clarified, “Then you don’t have to eat. Come on inside and sit with the rest of the family.”

    Slowly exhaling her frustration, Dylan set the paint roller back down and snapped the tin lid back over the paint can. She followed her father inside and closed the glass door behind her. When Dylan turned to face the table, she immediately felt out of place. Everyone was pressed and dressed; the twins wore matching collared shirts in complementary colors, Luke wore a hand me down suit more expensive than anything Dylan had ever owned, and today marked the first time Mara had ever worn a dress. Clearly not the first time she had ever worn a dress, but at least the first time Dylan had known her. Walking with a handful of plates from the stovetop, Mara set a stack of crepes at the center of the long oak table. It wasn’t until Mara had finished passing out the plates that she noticed Dylan drenched in sweat and speckled in mahogany paint.

    Mara addressed Dylan’s father first, “Maybe she would feel more comfortable if she had a chance to wash up first before breakfast?”

    Dylan answered for herself, “I already ate. I’m just… sitting here, I guess.” She looked to her father for clarification.

    Clearing his throat, Isaac explained, “We’re heading to church at 0800. Did you pack…” the Colonel looked first to Mara for the right words, but received little help, “After you get yourself squared away, if you have a plain dress or… something church appropriate…”

    Dylan’s confusion was equally matched by her father’s loss for words. The last time Dylan had gone to church, everyone wore jeans and sandals. Mentally searching through her wardrobe, Dylan only owned one dress comparable to Mara’s and had worn it only once before. Dylan offred a meek reply, “I’ve got a black dress?”

    Mara nodded and spoke around Dylan to the Colonel, “That’ll be fine.” She checked the kitchen clock, “Twenty minutes, Isaac.”

    The Colonel nodded and relayed the message to his daughter, “Marine corps shower, double time. Get moving, Private.”

    Dylan let out another long sigh and gave salute, “Yes, Sir.”

 

    Ten minutes later, Dylan had showered and changed into her black dress. She stood before the floor to ceiling mirrored closet door. Her bright blonde hair fell over her shoulders in sharp contrast to the funeral attire. Without an further contemplation, Dylan turned from the mirror. She wasn’t going to think about the life she lost. She wasn’t dressing up like a good daughter. She was only following orders.

 

    When she descended two flights of stairs and reached the garage, everyone was already in the Land Cruiser. Everyone was ready, except her dad. One of the twins rolled down the mid-passenger window and whined, “We’re all waiting on you.”

    The other one, probably Matthew, interjected, “Let’s just leave without her.”

    Luke sat shotgun playing his Gameboy and said nothing.

    Dylan asked over the whining of the twins and rumbling engine, “Where’s my dad?”

    Mara only half turned her head, “He drove on ahead,” to one of her boys, Mara instructed, “Please open the door, so she can get in and we can be on our way. Thank you.”

    The twin closest to the door complied.

    Reluctantly, Dylan rounded the back of the SUV and opened the rear tailgate window. She knew her place. She didn’t mind. As long as she was ordered to go along with these strangers, the further away Dylan could keep herself from these people, the better.


	6. Unauthorized Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in another temporary home, Aiden wrestles with his dissolving sense of a permanent family by borrowing the family Bronco and driving through suburban Dallas.

  

    Without fail Aiden always woke up at exactly six in the morning. Every, single, morning. Getting out of bed was an entirely different story though. Especially now after he’d arrived in Dallas at a little after four, changed into track shorts, and crawled into some kind of bed Aiden wasn’t at all inclined to leave the stiff mattress. He remembered closing his eyes. He remembered feeling the humidity and the unbearable wool blanket that attempted to suffocate him. Lifting his head from the sweatshirt he had used as pillow, Aiden spotted the blanket still in a heap on the dusty asphalt floor where he’d kicked it off hours beforehand. The blanket wasn’t worth going after. Once Aiden was awake, he would stay wide awake.

    Red Lights from the decades old digital clock screamed it was already a quarter after seven. Something about the clock display on the countertop across from his bed was decidedly unwelcoming. No, not just unwelcoming; Aiden was once again in an untamed environment. Pin pricks of anxiety stabbed at his feet as Aiden recognized he had let his guard down enough to actually fall asleep in an insecure environment. Until his new environment was under his control, he wouldn’t wake up at six every morning, Aiden simply wouldn’t be able to sleep at all.

    Fortunately, sleep deprivation hadn’t completely robbed Aiden of common sense. He’d stowed his backpack and boots within arms reach on the left side of his bed. The boy hung his feet over the side of the cot. Rusted springs underneath the mattress creaked terribly, amplified by the wide open space of the loft he now resided in. As he slipped into and laced up his boots, Aiden took note of the open balcony before him; thick metal rails separating his seventy foot by thirty foot living space. To his right, constructed in stark contrast to the rest of the concrete and industrial decor was an immaculate tile and maple bathroom with sapphire accents. Even though the space was only separated by a hastily constructed black tarp draped over a shower rod, Aiden had never seen a more elegant bathroom.

    Behind him, Aiden felt the morning sun already beat down on him through the large nearly floor to ceiling window panes that lined the back wall. There were large cloth shades that could have be drawn, but they had all been pulled open. To Aiden’s left was his only other suitcase, an empty cot, and a spiral metal staircase leading down.

 

    Once he was fully dressed, Aiden reached the bottom of the stairs and couldn’t believe his eyes. This whole barn, warehouse, Sam’s Club sized building was riddled in metal sculptures that exceeded Aiden’s imagination. There were custom motorcycles in various states of completion, abstract sculptures, even a half finished tyrannosaurus rex. The dinosaur clutched a signboard in it’s tiny hands, “Columbia Real Estate.” For a moment, Aiden had almost forgotten about the compulsion to be secure. He simply marveled at the metallic creations that littered the dusty warehouse. Then, sitting before the boy atop a cluttered workbench, Aiden gazed upon the one thing that completely erased the need for security.

    Afterall, security couldn’t hold a match next to absolute freedom.

    It was still as simple and beautiful and miraculous as it had been when Aiden first saw it in action hours earlier: the paramotor. It was a fairly simple machine; two stroke gasoline powered fan with backpack straps. That’s all. Simple. There was also a seat cushion that separated the motor from directly hitting the back of the pilot and also two angled pieces of metal that held a crossbar about an arms reach above the fan. That’s probably wear the sail connected. That Flying Man, William, must have stored the sail and whatever ropes or cords connected it to the crossbar somewhere else.

    The search for the missing sail was cut short. A coarse, tanned hand reached out and grabbed hold of Aiden’s wrist. Pivoting on his heels, Aiden held up his fist, but didn’t strike. It was William.

    With a snort, the ginger bearded man released Aiden, “You won’t be playing about in here, am I understood there boy-o?”

    Aiden nodded compulsively, but still wasn’t nearly awake to fully agree to anything. He had questions. That man had answers. At the moment, Aiden was without a filter. It wasn’t until after he heard the first thing that escaped his mouth did Aiden recognize it was the most trivial comment he could have uttered; “That glider is really cool.”

    Aiden cringed. Of course it was cool. Anybody with eyes and half a brain could see that a backpack that allowed you to fly was objectively cool. Out of the million and one questions Aiden actually needed to ask, what on God’s green earth compelled him to spit out the obvious first?

    William made another guttural snort, “It’s mine is what it is. Don’ ya go touching what ain’t yours. Now where’d your mom get off to?”

    That’s right, Aiden had no idea where his mom was. He still didn’t really no exactly where he was in relation to the entire state of Texas. Aiden could only offer a uncertain shrug. This displeased the bearded man even more as he lumberd off towards the opposite end of the warehouse.

    William cupped a hand over his mouth and bellowed, “Ally, where ya at in here?”

    Against his better judgment, Aiden found himself following William and yelling, “Mom?”

    Bill stopped. With a heavy sigh, he chided, “Ain’t there something useful you could be doin’, boy-o? I’ve got a whole shop that needs cleaning. Best you get to it.”

    Clean his shop? Who did this man-sized-dwarf think he was? In the past a handful of his mom’s boyfriends had attempted to act like ‘a dad’. Mostly, that meant berating, bossing, and beating Aiden. When he got old enough to fight or more often flee the dad-of-the-week, Aiden stopped worrying about some random guy ordering him about.

    William on the other hand, a man chiseled from the side of a mountain standing an arms length away from him would be another story altogether. Bill raised his voice enough to where it could echo off the walls, “You speak English, lad? Supply closet is over there and I’ve got work to finish here. Now get.”

    Aiden tried to summon his voice, but it came out cracked, “I’m gonna find my mom first.”

   

    He’d searched for nearly two hours and scoured every inch of the warehouse. His nerves were frayed. His mom was nowhere to be found. The truck was still parked out front. Her keys on the bedside counter. Aiden’s mind stretched to come up with the simplest explanation but kept drifting towards the ridiculous. If his mom had gone for a walk, she’d had left a note. Had she gotten a ride somewhere? From who? Where?

    As he continued his futual search, Aiden’s mind took a nose dive into the worst case scenario. Had his mom said ‘they’ were going to see Uncle Bill, or only ‘Aiden?’ What if he was too much trouble? What if his mom couldn’t afford to run with him any longer? What if she left?

    Wiping away the panic laced tears that formed at the edges of his eyes, Aiden grabbed his backpack, suitcase, and the keys to the truck and swiftly made his way downstairs. He was careful not to stomp on the metal stairs. Who knew what Uncle Bill, or whoever he really was, would do to Aiden if he was caught trying to escape.

    Aiden tried not to consider the implications of why his mom would leave him and the truck with Bill. It was an older Ford, she wouldn’t get much. Aiden couldn’t stop himself from thinking how much money she got in exchange for her only son. If Bill really knew where his mother was, he’d probably ask for his money back. Aiden wouldn’t let himself be reduced to a thing to be bought and sold.

    Stepping into the thick boiling air, Aiden quickly loaded his bags into the truck and closed the door. He didn’t know where to go, only that he couldn’t stay. Keys in the ignition, he summoned the Bronco back to life. Down shifting into reverse, Aiden backed up out of the space the drove forward out of the lot. As he approached the end of the driveway to the industrial complex, just before Aiden turned North on South Greensville, he glimpsed his supposed Uncle Bill running up the driveway, shouting. It was too late. Aiden wasn’t that stranger’s property; he would always choose to be free.

  


    About a quarter mile up the road, Aiden approached the stop light at the intersection of Greensville and Bethany. Two signs caught his eye. One, pointed toward US Highway 75: the logical choice. The second sign was a green poster board with thick black sharpy that read, “Free BBQ, First Presbyterian Church Plano: Jupiter and 15th. Today at 11:00am!”

    In this order, Aiden was terrified, furious, and halfway to diving heart first into despair as he wrestled with the possibility that his mother had left him, possibly sold him, to a stranger. He’d never felt so much at once. Aiden was nearly hyperventilating from the sheer weight of everything pressing down upon him. Only one emotion out weighed everything else: hunger.

 

    At the stop light, Aiden turned right, then made a second right headed South on Jupiter drive. It took him a minute, but after catching glimpses of children playing in their front yards and parents reclining on patios, Aiden recalled today was a Sunday. Families rested on Sundays. At least that’s what the majority of folks in this particular residential housing tract did. Apparently, abandoning your children was an activity only the minority partook in. Aiden didn’t notice he was simmering; anger boiled just below the surface. It wasn’t till he almost ran a stop sign and slammed on the brake that the anger finally boiled over. It was the lemonade stand that did it.

    On the corner out the driver’s side window a little girl and her dad served a random passerby. Happy little family. At least on the outside. Aiden grit his teeth. He’d kill for a happy family on the outside. Cars behind him honked. Aiden rolled forward through the intersection and left the picturesque cliche behind. He was still a minor driving a truck without a license. If Aiden wasn’t careful, he’d end up in his own cliche: a troubled teen thrown into a shity foster system... or wherever American kids went when they were no longer wanted.

 

    A little less than five miles down the road Aiden found the small brick building surrounded by freshly mowed grass, a flock of church goers, and smoke billowing up from a pair of grills. He drove down a block and parked around the corner just to be safe. Even with his stomach growling like crazy, Aiden still had enough sense left to be cautious. It didn’t help matters much that he stuck out like a sore thumb; he’d probably be the only one wearing thrift store clothes in a sea of folks in their Sunday best. He’d be staying for long. He was on a mission; find the end of the line, grab free food, and get out.

    Service must have just let out. People kept pouring out of the main sanctuary and funneling toward… there, that’s where the line started. Aiden settled in behind a family of six. His mouth watered. Smoke infused with the scent of fresh grilled hamburgers and bratwursts hung thick in the humid air. Fresh ground beef sizzled and snapped off the grill. Why did the line have to move so slowly?

    Nearly half an hour later, Aiden finally grabbed two burgers, a hand full of fries, and a thick slice of watermelon. He’d nearly finished the first burger as he casually slipped away from the crowd back towards the truck. That’s when she caught his eye. He stopped hot in his tracks. Just looking at her, Aiden was afraid that his jaw had gone slack and half chewed hamburger would roll out of his mouth. Light brown skin, dark curly hair that floated like a storm cloud above her head, and curves like a red Comice Pear. Aiden had never settled in one place long enough to really notice girls before, but in this brief respite of peace, he made sure to take notice of someone so beautiful.

    Willing himself out of what had to have been an obnoxiously obvious gaze, Aiden expanded his view to take in the whole scene. This gorgeous girl that couldn’t have been more than Aiden’s age was arguing with some goth girl. Drifting closer to the situation unfolding before his eyes, he picked up on a few keywords…

    The pale goth chick wrinkled her face in disgust, “But he wrote all the songs, what do you mean he ain’t worth nothin’?”

    With a slight southern Louisiana lilt, the black girl snapped back, “Cause if he was worth his weight, he won’t run off. Cube should have stayed with ‘em, crew. That’s what friends supposed to do.”

    Snapping back, the girl in the black dress replied, “Well that ain’t how life works. People break up. Families break up, and people need to learn to grow up. NWA ain’t always going to be around.”

    The black girl rolled her eyes; “How you roll up in here talkin’ ‘bout family? I seen you with the Garner Family, all half dozen crate of Faberge eggs y’all are--”

    At the mention of family, the blonde girl stepped forward almost nose to nose with the black girl and lost it, “--They ain’t all my family, so how ‘bout you mind your own business.”

    The black girl shoved the blonde goth back in her place, “How ‘bout ya stay outta my face?”

    That’s when the blonde girl went from steaming mad to mad crazy. For someone a few inches shorter than Aiden, the blonde girl had some power behind her. With one shove, the black girl was knocked down on her back.

    Instinctively, Aiden dropped his plate. He sprinted forward. Everything went quiet for a moment; he could only watch the blonde girl yell on mute as Aiden closed the distance between himself and the two girls. It almost looked like the white girl was going to take a swing, balling up her first.

    Taking a defensive posture Aiden stopped and stood in front of the black girl, still in shock on the ground. Almost without his consent, he said something cliched, “How about you calm down, and back off?” Sucifice to say, these words were less than effective.

    Lighting fast, the goth girl rabbit punched Aiden in the face. It wasn’t the strongest blow to the head he’d ever received, but there’d be a mark in the morning.

    At the top of her lungs, the goth girl screamed, “You can mind your own damn business too!”

    Emerging from the crowd of people on the other side of the lawn a mountainous voice called out, “Dylan! What’s going on over there?”

    Aiden glimpsed at the human sized GI Joe Figure sprinting towards him. It was time to go. He quickly glanced down at the girl that caught his now black-eye. She’d already left. Typical. Therein lay the real reason why Aiden never got involved with people; nothing ever got solved kicking a hornet’s nest.

    Already drenched in sweat, Aiden sprinted for the truck. He could still hear voices behind him calling out. Aiden ran faster. This wasn’t the first time on the run and it wouldn’t be the last. He’d gotten real good at it. Turn, run, leave it all behind. That was the truth of how things typically fell together. Now he finally and fully realised that no family, no beauty, no amount of hospitality from strangers should tempt him into dropping his guard. He had to just keep running.

    Aiden threw open the truck door and slammed it shut again once he’d leapt inside. Doors locked. Engine on. He threw the Bronco into gear and headed for the intersection. Get to the highway. Get to the open road. Keep running. It didn’t matter where. Life didn’t have any permanent destinations; it was all journey. Then there was the itch. He shouldn’t have, but nevertheless, Aiden looked up in the rearview mirror. He looked back and tried to convince himself it was only an illusion of safety and permanence. It felt like something was stuck in his throat. There must have been some debris in his eyes. They weren’t real families enjoying themselves on a Sunday. It was all pretend. He had to fight. He had to run. He wouldn’t let himself feel jealous over something he never had, and would never have again.

    He reached up to readjust the mirror. That’s when he stomped on the breaks. That’s when his heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t just that he’d nearly rearended the stopped car in front of him, it was the sudden yelp of the siren and flashing red and blue lights that cut the legs out from under him. Aiden froze as he watched the officer dismount his motorcycle and approach the driver’s side door.


End file.
